The Choiring of the Trees - Donald Harington [109]
As the witnesses were leaving, the warden said matter-of-factly to Nail, “You’re next.”
“Yeah,” Nail said. He raised his voice so Bobo could hear. “And when you turn that thing on, don’t turn it off until I’m black as Fleas.”
“Still think you can take a few of us with you?” the warden asked.
Nail knew he could not, and back in the death hole he thought about that. They never brought him any knife, fork, or spoon to eat with. All he got was cornbread, and the fat meat he had to eat with his fingers, and if there were any cowpeas, they came in a cup he had to hand back. It was doubly unfortunate that Timbo Red’s impulsive gesture had not only doomed the boy but also deprived Nail of the weapon he had intended to take to the chair with him. All the thought that Nail had put into preparing for his last minutes would have to be revised. At least, if it was any consolation, he knew now that Viridis would not be there, not because he’d asked her to stay home but because they wouldn’t let her in. So it would just be him and his eight or nine male witnesses, Fat Gill and Short Leg, the warden, and Bobo. And Jimmie Mac. Nail realized that in order to have any hope at all, he had better try to get on the good side of Jimmie Mac and change God’s sex back to male.
But Jimmie Mac never came again until his presence was required for the execution. And God remained a woman, an unseen one but a kind one, Who sent to Nail a small blessing in the form of the companionship of Timbo Red for Nail’s last days. Sure, it was a mixed blessing: it meant that Timbo Red had been convicted of the first-degree murder of Fat Gabe and was going to be executed for it (in those days the killing of a police officer or “correctional” officer was considered the worst of all crimes). Almost as soon as Fleas was moved out of his death cell, Timbo Red was moved into it. But the man and the boy were neighbors for two nights before either discovered the other’s presence. One morning Nail listened to the familiar sound for a long time before he finally recognized it for what it was: the skritch-skritch of a charcoal pencil on a piece of paper. Nail’s voice was first: “So they let you keep your pitcher pad?”
“Nails? That you in thar, Nails?”
“Yep.”
“Nails, I shore am sorry I tuck yore knife lak that. Reckon now ye caint use it fer what ye aimed to, kin ye?”
“Reckon not, Tim. But that’s okay. I’m jist sorry I had the damn thing in the first place. If I hadn’t of had it, you wouldn’t be in the death hole.”
“Shit. That thar Fat Gabe would of kilt ye.”
“Noo, son, he weren’t quite ready to do that, jist yet. You shouldn’t of done what ye done, Tim. I shore ’preciate it, but they weren’t no call fer ye to butt in lak thet.”
Timbo Red was silent, thinking about that, and then he said, “Do ye know what? Tim aint my name. But it aint Timbo Red neither. That’s jist what they call me.”
“Shore,” Nail said. “My name aint Nails neither. It’s jist plain ole Nail. No Nails. It’s a ole fambly name.”
“What I figgered. They was some folks name of Nail up whar I come from.”
“What is yore name, son? I don’t recollect.”
“Hit’s Ernest. Ernest Bodenhammer. But with a name lak thet, you mize well jist call me Tim.”
“Naw, I’ll call ye Ernest, if ye want.”
“And I’ll call ye Nail.”
In the death hole Nail Chism and Ernest Bodenhammer became more closely acquainted than they had during the months together upstairs in the barracks. Down here they had privacy. There was no one to hear them. A trusty came three times a day to bring the cornbread and cowpeas, and about once a day Short Leg or Fat Gill would come down and look in to see if they were both still alive and hadn’t chewed through their bars.
They talked all the time except during